


The Prophetess

by eldritcher



Series: The Song of Sunset Third Age [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:32:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saruman takes it upon himself to trace the Palantíri after Gandalf maintains that they are not a pressing concern. He travels to Gondor. The Corsairs are attacking the kingdom driven by their mysterious oracle who reigns in Umbar. The oracle has united the mercenaries and given them purpose. Gut instinct takes Saruman to Umbar where he meets the revered prophetess. A dangerous acquaintance is started that ultimately paves the way to Saruman’s downfall in the Ring War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prophetess

The Third Age, Year 2002,

Mithlond.

 

 

The Wizard Council had not agreed upon the danger inherent in letting the Seeing Stones stay untraced. Sauron would find them and bend them all to his will ere long, argued Saruman. Indeed, the Enemy’s agents were journeying north and west to seek the powerful devices.

“I tell you, Gandalf,” Saruman said urgently. “It is imperative that we find the Palantíri before Sauron does!”

“Sauron’s power is weak and his agents are scattered. What we need do is to destroy Dol Guldur!” Gandalf spoke harshly. “The Seeing Stones are lore, myths of the past remembered only in the rhymes of the Dúnedain!”

Saruman did not reply. Strategy was not Gandalf’s forte. But Saruman knew strategy, having learnt it under Irmo Lórien himself. He kept his own counsel and travelled East, seeking to trace the stones before Sauron could claim them.

He remembered Fëanor’s creations. He remembered vividly their power and endurance. Gandalf was a fool to forget the Noldorin High-King’s brilliance. The Palantíri would spell doom if they were not secured before Sauron reached them. 

“For perilous to all are the devices of an art deeper than we possess ourselves,” Saruman thought aloud.

“You seem unnaturally preoccupied by the Palantíri,” Gandalf observed. “Would you journey with me to Eriador? It would ease your worries.”

“No,” Saruman said decisively. “There are pressing enquiries I must make in Gondor.”

“Enjoy your ale while I research the history of the Periannath.”

Saruman cast his old friend a wry look before preparing for his journey to Gondor. 

 

Minas Anor,

Gondor

 

“The Stones of Annúminas and Amon Sûl were lost when the Witch-King overrun Fornost.” Eärnil of Gondor, reigning King, sighed and shrugged helplessly. “My son, Eärnur, reached there too late to save them.”

“Sauron has them then,” Saruman stated flatly. “What of the rest?”

“None knows of the fate of Elendil’s stone that was set upon the Tower-Hills in the west. That leaves one yet in the vicinity of the Enchanted Forest.”

“Of the ones in Gondor?”

“They remain safe.” Eärnil did not offer more.

Saruman nodded understandingly. These were no baubles after all. Even Wizards could not be trusted in the presence of a Palantír. 

“The master stone that resided under the Dome of the Stars in Osgilliath was destroyed in the civil war of 1437.” Eärnil finally deigned to share a reluctant detail. “After its destruction, communications between the other Palantíri are no longer reliable. We cannot know if we are being watched through the lost Stones.”

“How would you rank them?”

“The Ithil Stone that rests in Minas Ithil was the most powerful after the Elendil stone and the Master Palantír.” Eärnil nodded. “It can bend minds to will, according to the lore of my family.”

“My lord!”

Eärnil walked past his guest and met the young, pasty-faced guard who had run up gasping.

“What news?”

“The Corsairs attack again!”

“My son shall come!”

“They bear the flag of their prophetess.” The young man cringed at the darkening of Eärnil’s features. 

“Away and I shall send word to my commanders.”

The lad nodded and hurried away.

“The prophetess?” Saruman asked quietly.

Eärnil heaved an exasperated groan before grumbling, “The barracks are rife with talk of a woman who turned about the fortunes of the Corsairs. The mercenaries have been gaining steadily ever since she was crowned their ruler. There are rumours of dark sorcery.”

“The bloodthirsty men crowned a woman their ruler?” Saruman asked incredulously.

“In all but name. A puppet is installed on the throne, they say,” Eärnil said darkly. “Now I must go and see to this threat.”

“I shall come with you!” Saruman offered, glad to be of service in some manner that could aid the realm.

Eärnil nodded and Saruman followed him to the stables. They rode out to the port of Belfalas and boarded the King’s warship. The battle was already raging on the sea. 

“Too many men have we lost, my lord!” Eärnur, son of Eärnil, and heir to the throne, shouted.

“Scatter our ships!” Eärnil assumed command with the flair of an experienced leader of many battles fought and won. “The cannons are hungry! Feed them, my brothers! Let us show the blackguards and cowards where they belong! Cannons! Fire the cannons now! With the wind!”

Eärnil’s confidence and the steady hearts of the men he commanded ensured that Corsairs fumbled to stay in the battle. Their leader was less experienced, evident in his carriage and strategies. Their men had little faith in him. But then, as Eärnil’s ships surrounded the black vessels of the Corsairs, the captain of the enemy’s fleet called out a strange word and looked up at the skies in imploration.

Saruman raised his eyebrows. The skies had remained veiled even when Númenor had burned. Why would the Valar mediate between two warring armies in a boundary dispute?

“By all that is sacred!” Eärnur called out, his young voice terror-stricken.

Saruman looked up and saw the burning sails of the ship.

“Prepare to jump ship!” Eärnur yelled. Eärnil, his father, was still engaged in calling out orders to his men, delighting in the plight of the enemy’s fleet, clearly unaware of his own danger.

Saruman gripped his staff hard and murmured an incantation. Men started exclaiming in wonder and fear. Rains broke over the sea and the burning sails were quenched. 

“My lord!” Eärnur bowed in gratitude. The captain of the invading fleet struggled to keep his vessels on the defensive. Eärnil’s coolheaded strategy soon had the trespassers vanquished. 

“Round them all up and have them trussed!” Eärnil shouted to his warriors. “I want every single secret of the Corsairs from their lips before they die!”

 

The Royal House At Belfalas.

 

“The captain has lost his head,” Eärnur muttered darkly. “He has one answer to parrot for all questions; that his Queen will come to avenge them all.”

“I could think of many interesting things to do to the woman when she gets here,” Eärnil smirked, smug and revelling in his victory.

“Perhaps,” Saruman cut in, “this woman should be stopped before she can gain greater influence. If she forms an alliance with Sauron, we would be in danger.”

“She is a woman from Far Harad, my lord.” Eärnil rolled his eyes. “She will make a mistake soon.”

“I did not know that sorcerers existed in those parts,” Eärnur remarked. “The men say that the oracle hails from Lebennin.”

“Why did we never hear of her before then?” Eärnil demanded. “She is one of those wild pagans of the Far East, son. No daughter of Gondor would plot against our land.”

Eärnur seemed content by the reassurance and nodded grimly. Saruman, though, was intrigued. He knew all the Maiar. But for Melian, none of the women had travelled to Middle Earth. Was it possible that Morgoth or Sauron had trained others in the arts?

“I wish to see her,” he told Eärnil.

Eärnur, already in jovial spirits, suggested jocularly, “Perhaps she would make a good match for you, lord? If a wizard beds an oracle, what shall the offspring be?”

“That is farthest from my mind!” Saruman chuckled. “I need to know her plans, for the sake of us all.”

Eärnil nodded and said briskly, “Perhaps you should travel to Umbar.”

Sorrow crept into the King’s eyes. Umbar had been the haven and foremost port city of the Númenoreans for centuries. There Pharazôn had sailed in to capture Sauron. There their magnificent fleet had rested during the days of gold. Yet Umbar had been taken. The Corsairs and their oracle had fought tooth and nail to capture Umbar.

“There are cutthroat traders that deal with both the merchants of Lebennin and the Corsairs. They are not harmed by either side.” Eärnil nodded thoughtfully before continuing, “If you were to accompany them to one of the sea trading posts, perhaps you could negotiate with the Corsairs and be taken to the woman.”

“They might not allow a wizard into their lands,” Saruman said doubtfully.

“They shall,” Eärnil said with complete confidence. “They seek ever to please their oracle and always looking for new conquests to gift her with.”

“Conquest?” Saruman asked, alarmed.

“Sacrifice, slavery, sex,” Eärnil trailed off. “I don’t know what she does with the prisoners Corsairs take. I would venture a guess on sacrifice though. She is said to practice black sorcery after all.”

 

Aboard a cutthroat trader’s vessel,

Pelagrir.

 

“Do you smoke?” 

The rotund owner of the vessel sidled up to the wizard who was standing on the deck and gazing east thoughtfully. Saruman debated silently. He was fond of a pipe or two, especially when he had Gandalf’s incorrigible company. He did crave a smoke. But he had no cause to trust this merchant who would, given a chance, drug him and sell him to a travelling carnival of the Haradrim. All the trader had been told was that Saruman was an important guest from Minas Anor who should not be crossed.

“I thank you, my good man,” Saruman said smoothly, relying on his musical voice to achieve what his words could not. “But my lungs are not what they used to be.”

The man gave a wheezy chuckle and said jovially, “Mine the same! But one can’t forego pleasures, can one?” 

“Indeed!” Saruman replied with a faint smile, reminded of Gandalf who would often say the same.

“Maybe some variety of entertainment?” The man leant in and Saruman fought the urge to run away from the pungent breath currently over flooding his nostrils. “There are many ways of spending the night and none of them need be alone.”

Saruman frowned. He had not seen women aboard. The trader caught him by the elbow and made him turn to watch the boys cleaning the deck. Saruman had not known that this practice was popular here. He calmly turned about and faced the throbbing jowls of the shipmaster.

“My grandsons are older than those boys.” 

“The shiphands-”

“I would die of heart failure if I indulge in those activities at my age!” Saruman laughed, though he ensured that his laughter reflected only his chagrin at being unable to indulge than amusement at the trader’s suggestions.

Two black eyes peered at him suspiciously.

“You,” Saruman again relied upon his voice, “You have my greatest admiration. How do you manage to stay healthy despite the indulgences? You look younger than your age, if I may so.”

The blatant praise achieved his aim and soon the man was regaling him with dubious tales of his youth. Every now and then, the man would slap him on his back and advice the wizard on how to live well. Saruman bore it all patiently, laughing when he was required to and expressing admiration most profoundly at all the right occasions. 

“A tankard of ale for my mate here!” The trader called out aloud.

“I would rather-” Saruman began.

“No better way to die than to die of drink!” The man exclaimed as he pressed the tankard into unresisting hands.

Saruman suppressed a sigh and nodded obediently. It was excellent, after all, and Gandalf had told him to enjoy the ale.

 

Rendezvous of traders and mercenaries,

Pelagrir.

 

“She snaps you into two,” the interpreter told Saruman with a very straight face.

Saruman stared at the man for a moment before turning his gaze to the swarthy, scowling trader of the Corsairs. They were trading poppy seeds.

“The King himself likes his smokes from Harad,” had confided the shipmaster to the wizard who was fascinated by the calling forth and back of prices as the traders haggled.

“What do they get in return?” Saruman had asked.

“Weapons.” The tone in which the trader had uttered the word had been so casual that Saruman had turned to face him in plain amazement.

“Going on for years,” the man had shrugged. “We give them weapons. They give us poppy. Our weapon masters are the best, you see.”

Now Saruman wished that he knew the tongue of the Corsairs. His voice would have eased his passage. 

“She makes her vultures eat you.” The interpreter was still being gleefully helpful.

“One would think that you are siding with her than with Gondor,” Saruman remarked.

“Old man, go back and die in peace,” the interpreter offered the translation of the latest sentence spoken by the swarthy man of the east.

Saruman told the interpreter, “Tell him that the oracle herself commanded me to travel to her side before I died.”

The interpreter looked disbelieving, but money had been paid and he translated rapidly.

“Pilgrimage?” the man of the Corsairs asked Saruman.

Saruman fought down a hysterical urge to laugh and nodded in reply. It was a quest than a pilgrimage. But who cared about the purpose as long as he was taken to the oracle?

“You lie, you die!” the man promised Saruman.

“Very well.”

And he was accepted aboard the ship of the Corsairs. With a sigh, he repaired to the small cabin he had been given and wondered how he could communicate with these men until he reached Umbar. At the great port city, he was sure that there would be many who spoke Westron.

If the oracle was from Far Harad, would she know Westron? That was an obstacle he had not earlier considered. With visions of a swarthy, dark, ugly woman who performed human sacrifices haunting his dreams, Saruman looked forward with ill ease to meeting the prophetess.

* * *

The Haven of Umbar.

 

 

Saruman had discerned more than his peers had about the true might of the Eastern Kingdom. But even he had not anticipated such magnificence as he saw in the city of Umbar. Traders of spices and of flowers plied their wares on the docks. As soon he had disembarked, Saruman was subjected to a thorough interrogation by a guard of the Umbar City Council. Unlike what those in Gondor believed, the Corsairs had not let the great port city fall into ruins. Instead, they had poured their coffers in ensuring that the city remained the foremost of their ports. 

“We are not savages,” the guard remarked in Westron, clearly amused by Saruman’s wondering gaze roving over the aesthetically pleasing layout of the markets and the wharfages beyond. 

“I am not as prejudiced as many who come from the west of Pelagrir,” Saruman offered, wishing for conciliation. He wanted to meet the oracle and being on difficult terms with the guard would not aid his quest.

“Then you shall find Umbar a feast for your eyes,” the guard smiled. “I will speak with the shipmaster as to your errand and return.”

Saruman nodded and once more turned his eyes to the city. The skyline was broken here and there by huge towers bedecked with flags that reminded Saruman of Mindon Eldalieva in Valinor. Many storied houses strove to outdo each other in gaining the prominence in the onlooker’s regard. and upon the terraces of those houses were little boys flying their kites with the same fervour as Saruman had seen in the sons of Gondorian soldiers when they engaged in the pursuit. It brought to him the ironic fact that children remain children even across the divide of war.

The loss of Umbar was grievous to Gondor, not only because the realm was diminished in the south and its hold upon the Men of the Harad was loosened, but because it was there that Ar Pharazôn the Golden, last King of Númenor, had landed and humbled the might of Sauron. Though great evil had come after, even the followers of Elendil remembered with pride the coming of the great host of Ar-Pharazôn out of the deeps of the Sea; and on the highest hill of the headland above the Haven they had set a great white pillar as a monument. It was crowned with a globe of crystal that took the rays of the Sun and of the Moon and shone like a bright star that could be seen in clear weather even on the coasts of Gondor or far out upon the western sea.

Saruman sighed as he looked upon the monument of victory of the rash, brilliant King who had given Sauron a foothold and more. It had destroyed the line of the Kings, passing the rule of the remaining followers of Elros to lesser kinsmen as Isildur, men who had been easily daunted by the might of Sauron and men who had succumbed to the lure of power. Nobility had faded from the scions of Elros leaving the White Tree withering. 

Why had Pharazôn chosen the path of destruction? Rumours in Alqualondë had spoken of the one who had been coerced by rape, Pharazôn’s queen, fairer than the fairest, true to the blood of Luthien, the foremother of all descendants of Elros, and bearing the wisdom of her father, Tar-Palantír, the foresighted, who had named his beloved daughter after the woman who had borne unto Finwë the spirit of fire. Had Palantír known of his daughter’s fate? The marriage was one opposed by the laws, for Pharazôn and Míriel were first cousins and the union was incest. Perhaps the knowledge that he was already condemned had made Pharazôn reckless enough to encourage Sauron’s sorcery? 

His musings were broken when blue eyes came to hold his own and a young maid stepped before him saying, “The Prophetess shall see you.”

 

The palace in that the oracle dwelt remained distended from the rest of the sprawling complex of the royal quarters. Saruman, who had always preferred isolation in his living arrangements, found a twinge of sympathy within himself for the prophetess who had tried her utmost to have her quarters set away from the teeming multitudes of the great city.

The plantains lent a cool shade to the sun washed grounds of the palace and Saruman was glad for their gently swaying branches providing him respite from the sweltering heat at noontide. The guards were helpful and directed him towards the inner sanctum of the palace. Courtiers, sycophantic and cunning as they were everywhere, littered the inner corridors, casting curious glances at the Wizard on their way hither and thither. 

“In through here,” the maid curtsied and left him. 

He nodded to her briskly and walked in to find himself in a small antechamber where many men were waiting patiently. He assumed a seat and indulged his imagination about the oracle once again. He had to admit that he did not have to risk what he had done in order to procure information about the woman. He had tried and tested methods of gathering information at his disposal. Radagast would have been happy to help him in the pursuit. But something within had propelled him to come here. Perhaps it was the curiosity to know her origins and initiation into the art of black sorcery. 

 

“You are granted audience,” he was told politely by the last of the courtiers who had petered in and out with their errands. 

Saruman nodded and thanked him before advancing to the door and knocking politely. His hand gripped his staff firmly. The guards had not deprived him of it. Perhaps a Wizard was the least expected guest in the realm of the Oracle.

“Go on in,” the courtier called out to him. 

“Very well.” 

Saruman slid open the door and walked into the large chamber lit by torches bracketed to the high walls. 

“Curunír!”

He gasped in pure astonishment and stood benumbed as recognition pounded him. Upon a throne at the far end of the hall, her noble features bearing the shadows of firelight and never distant sorrow, her slender form clad in a simple black gown and her pale brow adorned by a high tiara, sat Idril Celebrindal.

He had known her as a young girl presented in the court of Ingwë. Elenwë’s daughter, who resembled her strikingly. There was nothing in Idril that was inherited from Turgon, and for that Saruman was secretly glad; he had been an admirer of Elenwë from afar, though he had never felt compelled to do anything about his mild interest in her. 

Idril rose from the throne and remarked, “You are in guise. But your soul remains the same.”

Saruman frowned. Even Galadriel had not recognised him so easily. Did Idril possess powers mightier than what Galadriel had? The burning sails came to his mind.

“You are the oracle?” he asked, too disturbed by the unreal situation to ground himself to politeness.

Her lips quirked in a wry smile before she murmured, “They call me so, I have heard.”

 

“The lore masters say that you sailed West with Tuor,” Saruman began in bewilderment. “We heard tidings from Círdan that it was so.”

“The lore masters have been accused of perpetrating fanciful tales in more than one instance,” she said simply, pushing the food on her plate to and fro in unease. 

“Itarillë-”

“Idril, I acknowledge neither old names nor bonds,” she said angrily. 

Saruman nodded and fell silent, thinking of the tale of Gondolin’s fall that Finarfin had brought West with him after The War of Wrath. Idril and Tuor had escaped by grace of Glorfindel’s sacrifice, coming to the mouth of Sirion, and sailing west after age had crept in Tuor’s mortal blood. 

“How fares Laurefindë?” she asked after long silence, her features marred by deep thought and her blue eyes holding concern for one she had been proud to call friend once. “I hear that he was denied Aman and Mandos.”

“The Lords of the West offered him a choice,” Saruman said uncomfortably, “of foreswearing a bond of devotion. He chose not to.” 

Idril smiled, her features suddenly transformed into radiance by the words he had spoken. “He did not have a choice, Curunír.”

He watched her warily, and not for the first time he wondered if the strange rumours about the regard that had existed between the erstwhile Princess and her cousin held more than the barest inkling of the truth. 

 

Saruman found himself ensconced in chambers contained within the personal enclave of the prophetess. They spoke for long hours on end, discussing myriad subjects they agreed and disagreed upon. She was more than passably intelligent, he found to his pleasant surprise, and could well hold her own in any argument.

He was reluctant to broach the matter of her initiation into dark sorcery. But he had to know. So he lay in wait, until a suitable opportunity would arise sooner or later. 

When the chance came, it was strikingly different from what he had envisaged. A courtier came to her side as she stood with Saruman on a terrace facing East. 

“Speak,” she said quietly in the Adûnaic tongue. 

“The lords send word to say that the tithe has been committed to the Council.”

“The count?”

“Thirty maidens,” he said with a low bow. “As the lady commanded.”

Saruman stood stunned as Idril nodded and gave the guard leave to retire. She favoured him with a knowing smile that was shorn of kindness and compassion. 

“It is time to witness a special attraction of Umbar summers,” she breathed, her eyes holding a dark mixture of promise and sorcery. 

 

The colossal amphitheatre was overcrowded and the noise nearly deafened Saruman. He stood behind the thrones of Idril and the lord of Umbar. And when Idril rose, silence blanketed the air and the restless crowd settled instantaneously. Saruman watched, bound by curiosity and fear, as she gestured elegantly with her right hand. Warriors of the Corsairs brought in to the arena women - nay, Saruman corrected himself with a thudding heart, maidens - arrayed in the finest silken ensembles he had ever seen. Attendants entered the stadium ground upon which the spectators had fixed their gaze on, pushing wagons of what seemed to firewood. 

Saruman cursed under his breath as the pyre was built. Idril gave me a nod and the attendants lit the firewood, and the pyre blazed a fiery orange that competed with the brilliant hues of the sun-kissed summer skies. 

He tore his away from the spectacle when he heard the high-pitched scream of the first maiden. Incantations older than the sun were uttered fluently by Idril as the screams continued below. Saruman frantically tried to summon his skills, and to save the maidens being slaughtered below. But his mind was in thrall of a dark embrace, one that allowed him neither concealment nor escape. 

A dark cloud formed above, blotting out the summer sun and Saruman shuddered as an unbidden fragment of lore told in the West by Eönwë came to his mind. 

Sauron caused to be built upon the hill in the midst of the city of the Númenóreans, Armenelos the Golden, a mighty temple; and it was in the form of a circle at the base, and there the walls were fifty feet in thickness, and the width of the base was five hundred feet across the centre, and the walls rose from the ground five hundred feet, and they were crowned with a mighty dome. And that dome was roofed all with silver, and rose glittering in the sun, so that the light of it could be seen afar off; but soon the light was darkened, and the silver became black. For there was an altar of fire in the midst of the temple, and in the topmost of the dome there was a louver, whence there issued a great smoke. And the first fire upon the altar Sauron kindled with the hewn wood of Nimloth, and it crackled and was consumed; and then blood sacrifices began, and men marvelled at the reek that went up from it, and that the land lay under a cloud.

 

Saruman no longer had to wonder from whom Idril had learnt sorcery. Limply, he leant against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. A low sound of feminine laughter pervaded his hearing and he flinched. 

“They say it was my cousin that betrayed my father’s city,” she said quietly, coming to stand before him, overwhelming his senses with her presence. His eyes shot open and met the fearless, cruel blue gaze of his hostess.

“My cousin would not have betrayed my father even if threatened with a fate worse than that which claimed his father,” she continued, a cold smile sparking on her lips when Saruman inhaled sharply in comprehension.

“He bore his torment bravely, and returned to us a patriot. To none did he tell what had transpired, to none but his Itarillë.” 

Her eyes turned distant with the pain of memory and Saruman tried to halt the disgust and pity warring in him. 

“I will not be your confessor,” he said quietly. “I cannot do anything to remove this taint. Turkáno’s daughter would never have acted so!”

“I am not her,” she laughed recklessly. “I hear that Turgon sold her as chattel to a mere mortal who happened to die during the course of a voyage west.”

“Itarillë!” Saruman exclaimed in horror as he comprehended the meaning contained within her dark words.

“I am not her,” she repeated quietly. 

“You sold Gondolin to Morgoth!” Saruman accused, desperately wanting her to deny it.

“To Mairon,” she corrected him serenely. “He promised me a life with my cousin unencumbered by my father’s pride and folly. He would finally have Laurefindë and I would have Lómion.”

“You wretched fool, didn’t you--?”

“Yes,” she shrugged distantly and turned away from his gaze. “How was I to have known that Laurefindë would aid my husband to fight Lómion?” She flinched at the words and her eyes clouded with cursed memory. “How was Mairon to have known that Laurefindë would foolishly, valorously, absurdly sacrifice himself for saving his Princess and her son? We lost what we wanted above life-breath - we lost them both.” 

“Repent,” Saruman urged her fearfully. “You must repent. The Gods shall forgive, for you were deceived by Sauron the Abhorrent!”

“There was no deception.” She glared at him scornfully. “Allies we were then, and allies we remain now. When he returns to Mordor from Mirkwood, he shall have my aid in the final battle against Gondor.”

“I cannot allow you to aid the sorcerer!” Saruman said wrathfully. “Enough have you slain under his command. Cease and come with me. Repent and sail!”

“You seem to be entertaining the absurd notion that I am malleable to your holy purposes,” she said with a hint of malicious amusement colouring her gaze. “You shall find, on the contrary, that you are to be made malleable to my cause.”

“Do what you may,” he cursed her, “you will never break my vow of fealty to the Lords of the West. Your kin would be horrified if they hear of your doings! Altáriel yet strives for redemption of your family.”

“I heard that Altáriel is promised redemption if she ends Mairon’s reign. Mairon believes that Middle Earth can thrive better under his rule than in a state of anarchy with states managed by the descendants of Isildur. And - I believe Mairon which is contrary to the situation of Altáriel, who cannot trust the Gods not to renege on their promise. I think I deal in sureties more than she does. And if you were wise as they say you are, you would stand with me, Curunír.”

“I cannot believe that you would dare speak these words!” Saruman said, frightened by the steadiness of her gaze. “I am faithful to my masters. I shall leave, immediately, and may you be cursed in your folly.”

She smiled and leant in to brush her long fingers against his cloaked arm before whispering softly, “A pity then, is it not, that I feel most inclined to draw you into my folly?”

* * *


End file.
